The engine purred through empty Tuesday night streets, dashboard clock showing 10:47 PM. Markus had learned that late-night grocery runs meant fewer interruptions, fewer phones pointed his way which was most important of all.
In his AirPods, Joe Rogan's voice rambled through an episode from 2019, the guest, some comedian whose name Markus had already forgotten, deep into a story about ayahuasca that had taken several bizarre turns.
"—so I'm sitting there in the jungle, right? And this shaman is chanting, and I'm thinking, 'What the did I sign up for?' But then the walls started breathing, and I swear to God, Joe, I saw my third-grade teacher turn into a rubix cube—"
Markus pulled into the Walmart parking lot, noting the thin crowd of cars scattered across the asphalt expanse. Perfect. He killed the engine but kept the podcast running.
The automatic doors whooshed open, bringing that particular Walmart smell—cleaning products mixed with subway sandwiches mixed with indefinably commercial smells. Just the perfect combination.
His list was short: protein powder, organic granola bars his mom had gotten addicted to, dog food for Tanka who'd been growing even bigger, and toilet paper because they were down to the emergency stash.
First aisle, so far so good. Just another dude in a Spurs hoodie, hood up, head down, the universal signal for 'please don't talk to me.'
"—they get high on pufferfish! Like, on purpose! They pass it around like a joint! If that's not proof that consciousness wants to party, I don't know what is—"
Markus actually snorted at that, earning a glance from an elderly woman comparing pasta sauce prices. He grabbed the protein powder, the big tub that would last maybe two weeks with his current program, and turned toward the pet food aisle.
That's when the first recognition hit. A kid, maybe thirteen, standing with what looked like an older sister who was deeply invested in her phone. The kid's eyes went wide.
Markus saw it happening, the internal debate, the gathering of courage, the tentative step forward. He pulled out one AirPod, trying to look approachable despite every instinct telling him to pretend he hadn't noticed.
"Are you... are you Markus Reinhart?"
"Yeah, man. What's up?"
The kid's face lit up like Christmas morning. "Oh my God! Bro, that shot against Golden State was insane!"
"Appreciate that. You play ball?"
"Yeah! Point guard for my middle school team. I've been trying to do that hesitation move you do, but I keep traveling."
And here was the thing, Markus could have given a quick thanks and moved on, but something about the kid's genuine enthusiasm made him pause. He set down his basket, actually engaged.
"The key is selling it with your shoulders, not your feet. Watch," He demonstrated the move in slow motion right there in the pet food aisle, the kid's eyes tracking every detail. "See? The feet follow the shoulders. If you try to do it with just your legs, that's when you travel."
"Yoooo, that makes so much sense!"
By now the sister had looked up from her phone, recognition dawning. Within minutes, word had somehow spread through the store's ecosystem. People appeared from other aisles, phones materializing, requests multiplying.
"Can I get a picture?"
"My husband won't believe this!"
"Sign my receipt?"
"My son plays for Churchill High—"
Markus handled it all with patience that surprised him, some part of his brain noting the surreal nature of signing autographs next to a display of kitty litter.
Back in the car, he sat for a moment before starting the engine. Through the windshield, he could see people still lingering near the entrance, probably posting their encounters on social media.
—
The next two weeks dissolved into the familiar blur of NBA basketball. Denver's thin air and championship poise proved too much—Murray picking apart defensive schemes while Jokić operated with the casual brilliance of someone playing a different sport than everyone else. Loss: 116-107.
Atlanta brought their young chaos to San Antonio, but Markus had their number, dissecting their aggressive defense with surgical precision. Win: 104-98.
New Orleans tried to establish dominance inside, Zion using his unprecedented combination of size and speed to attack the rim. But Wembanyama had entered that space where potential started becoming production. His seven blocks changed the game's entire geometry. Win: 102-99.
Then Minnesota got their revenge, Edwards channeling something beyond his years, that killer instinct that separated good from great making itself known. He finished with 41, most of them coming in crucial moments. Loss: 115-108.
Two and two. Learning experiences disguised as basketball games. But all of it was prologue now.
Phoenix awaited in the tournament quarterfinals.
—
The morning of the Phoenix game, the practice facility's recovery room looked like something from a science fiction film. Bodies submerged in ice baths, steam rising from the contrast between cold water and warm air. The tournament's intensity had compressed a season's worth of physical stress into three weeks.
Markus eased himself into the tub, the shock of cold stealing thought momentarily. Around him, teammates went through their own recovery rituals, some silent, some chattering to distract from discomfort, all understanding this was where games were won or lost.
The wall-mounted screen played footage from the previous day's preparation, Chip's program for building mental resilience in physical form. Players holding planks until muscles screamed betrayal. Visualization sessions where they rehearsed crucial possessions with eyes closed. Trust exercises that seemed juvenile until you realized your season might depend on believing your teammate would make the right read.
"Pain is just information," Chip's voice came from the video. "What you do with that information determines who you become."
The ice did its work reducing inflammation, promoting recovery, preparing bodies for another war. But more than that, it built something intangible. Shared suffering creating shared strength.
Markus let his thoughts drift as the cold became background noise. Phoenix had Durant and Booker, maybe the league's deadliest scoring duo. They'd be angry about the group stage loss, eager to prove that was aberration not reality. Every possession would carry weight.
Beneath tactical concerns lay something else, though. The tournament had awakened an edge in him he hadn't known existed. Not just competitiveness—he'd always had that—but genuine hunger. The difference between wanting to win and needing to win.
"Time," came the call.
Bodies emerged pink and stiff, moving toward the next phase of preparation. Always another phase. Always more work.
—
The quarterfinal brought different energy than group play. Single elimination now. One game determining advancement or vacation. The crowd understood, creating atmosphere from warmups through final buzzer.
Phoenix emerged with clear intent. They'd studied film, made adjustments, prepared specifically for San Antonio's pet actions. When Markus ran his favorite side pick-and-roll, they trapped hard and early. When Wembanyama posted up, they sent help from unexpected angles.
But the Spurs had evolved too. Each tournament game had added layers to their chemistry, turning theoretical connections into hardwired habits. What had been conscious thought in November was unconscious reaction by December.
The game unfolded in waves. Phoenix would build a lead through Durant's shotmaking or Booker's craftiness, then San Antonio would respond with a defensive stand and transition opportunity. Neither team led by double digits, the margin never comfortable enough to relax.
Late in the third quarter, with Phoenix up four, came the sequence that shifted everything. It started with defense—Anunoby stripping Booker cleanly, the ball bouncing toward midcourt where Markus scooped it up in stride.
The court opened before him. Vassell filled the right lane. Robinson trailed. Wembanyama—somehow, impossibly—had beaten everyone downcourt despite starting the possession in the paint.
Markus processed options in milliseconds. The safe play to Vassell. The spectacular lob to Wembanyama. Or...
He pulled up from thirty feet, the defense scrambling to contest. The shot felt pure leaving his hands, rotation perfect, arc optimal. The crowd rose as one, understanding what they were witnessing before the ball even reached its target.
Swish.
The arena erupted.
Phoenix called timeout but momentum had shifted. You could see it in body language, feel it in the crowd's energy. The Spurs rode that wave through the fourth quarter, every player contributing, every possession meaningful.
With a minute remaining and San Antonio up five, Phoenix made their last push. Durant isolated, creating space with that impossibly high release. The shot dropped. Three-point game.
The Spurs' response came through execution rather than heroics. Patient ball movement finding the open man, Anunoby in the corner. His three effectively ended it.
But the defining moment came in the final seconds. Phoenix down six, needing a miracle, Durant pulling up for three. The shot had beaten them before. This time, Wembanyama's contest was perfect, those impossible arms disrupting just enough.
As the shot clanged out and the buzzer sounded, Wembanyama grabbed the rebound and threw it skyward.
They'd survived. They'd advanced.
Final: San Antonio 106, Phoenix 100.
—
Two days later, LeBron James held court at Lakers practice, the semifinal matchup looming. At thirty-nine, he remained the standard, four championships, countless battles, nothing left to prove but everything still to play for.
"San Antonio's got something special brewing," he told the assembled media. "You can see it coming together. Wembanyama's impact, the role players understanding their roles. Pop's got them playing the right way."
"How do you approach a game like this?" someone asked. "Tournament semifinal against a young team on the rise?"
LeBron's expression shifted subtly, scratching his beard. "Same way I approach every game. With respect for my opponent and belief in my team. They're young and hungry. We're experienced and hungry. Experience usually wins these games."
"What about Markus specifically? He's been on a tear lately."
"Special talent," LeBron acknowledged. "But we've got some things to show him."
The Lakers' energy was different than Phoenix's emotional heat. This was a franchise that measured success in championships approaching another day at the office.
They'd been here before. They'd be here again.
"AD's been dominant defensively," another reporter noted. "How important is his matchup with Wembanyama?"
"Everything," LeBron said simply. "Two unicorns going at it. AD's got the experience edge. Vic's got youth. Fascinating matchup within the matchup."
—
Game night arrived like a heavyweight title fight. The parking lots around AT&T Center filled hours early, tailgaters creating small villages of anticipation.
The Spurs' team bus pulled up to the players' entrance at 5:47 PM, ninety minutes before tip. Through the tinted windows, Markus could see the gauntlet waiting, media credentials hanging from necks, cameras already raised, the clicking beginning before the bus doors even opened.
"Damn, it's like the Finals out there," Vassell muttered, peering through his window.
Robinson laughed from the back. "Y'all ain't seen nothing. Wait til we actually make the playoffs."
They filed off the bus into controlled chaos. Camera flashes created a strobe effect, turning simple walking into a series of frozen moments. Markus kept his head up, AirPods in but no music playing—a trick he'd learned to look unavailable while staying aware.
"Markus! How you feeling about tonight?"
"Any nerves facing LeBron in a big game?"
"Victor! What's the game plan for AD?"
The Lakers arrived twenty minutes later to even more fanfare. LeBron emerged from their bus, no hurry, no acknowledgment of the cameras, just purposeful movement toward another day at the office.
AD followed, headphones on, game face already set. The rest of the Lakers moved with similar professional detachment, Reaves, Russell, Hachimura, all understanding their roles in the night's drama.
Inside the arena, the production value had been ramped up to playoff levels. Extra lighting rigs hung from the rafters. The court gleamed under multiple coats of fresh polish. Baseline cameras were positioned every five feet, operators checking angles, everyone preparing to capture history or heartbreak.
Markus emerged for early warmups to find the arena already half full, die-hards who knew the real show started before the show. He began his routine at the far basket, away from where the Lakers would warm up, starting close and working his way out. The ball felt good in his hands, rotation coming naturally, that sense of being locked in arriving early.
Ten minutes into his routine, the Lakers took the court. LeBron's entrance, even for warmups, commanded attention. A few stretches at halfcourt, some light jogging, then directly into his shooting progression. No wasted motion, no performative elements, just preparation refined over two decades.
As both teams filled the court, the contrast became apparent. The Spurs, young and eager, went through drills with visible energy, talking, encouraging, feeding off the growing crowd. While the Lakers worked in relative silence.
"Aye rook!"
Markus turned to find Russell Westbrook walking past, the former MVP now in a Lakers uniform.
"Big stage tonight," Russ continued, not quite friendly but not hostile either. "You think you really built for?"
Markus remained silent, instead he let his actions respond by quickly turning and banging in a three.
Russel pursed his lips. "Alight, I see you." He nodded, walking off.
It wasn't trash talk exactly, more like acknowledgment that tonight would be different. Regular season success meant nothing here. This was about proving you belonged when everything mattered.
With thirty minutes until tip, both teams cleared the court for final preparations. The arena was packed now, energy building with each passing minute. The special tournament court design looked even more vivid under the full lighting setup, the Tower of the Americas logo at center court seeming to pulse with life.
…
The national anthem brought everyone together at center court, that moment of unity before competition. Markus stood between Vassell and Wembanyama, trying to calm his breathing, trying to treat this like any other game while knowing it was anything but.
"Ladies and gentlemen, tonight's semifinal matchup in the inaugural NBA In-Season Tournament!"
The crowd erupted before the PA announcer could continue. This mattered. Everyone felt it.
Starting lineups were announced with extra theatricality, each name echoing through the arena. When they called Markus's name, the roar surprised him with its intensity, San Antonio had fully embraced their unexpected run, their unlikely hero.
LeBron's introduction drew a mixture of respect and competitive anger, the greatest player of his generation, perhaps even of all time, coming into their house, trying to end their dream.
The teams gathered for final instructions. Pop kept it brief: "They're going to try to take us out of our comfort zone early. Stay composed. Trust what got us here."
Across the court, Darvin Ham was more animated with the Lakers, pointing at specific matchups, emphasizing particular actions. Different styles, same intent—win by any means necessary.
The opening tip went to the Lakers, AD's length advantage over Robinson proving decisive. LeBron brought the ball up slowly, deliberately, setting the tone immediately. No rush, no panic, just control.
He directed traffic with subtle hand signals, a pointed finger sending Reaves to the corner, a flat palm telling AD to hold his position. The Spurs' defense was set, disciplined, but LeBron was reading their positioning like a map.
The first possession took eighteen seconds—patient probing until Russell found a crease for a mid-range jumper. Good defense, better offense, the Lakers making a statement about execution.
Markus brought it back with similar patience. The crowd wanted run-and-gun, but this wasn't that kind of game. Not with these stakes. He worked through the Lakers' defense methodically, noting how they were already shading toward Wembanyama's left hand, how AD was playing slightly off Robinson to help faster.
The first Spurs possession ended with Vassell's three off beautiful ball movement, four passes finding the open man. But that would be their last easy bucket for a while.
The physicality ramped up immediately. AD bodied Wembanyama on every catch, using his chest and lower body strength to move the young Frenchman off his spots.
On the perimeter, the Lakers guards made Markus work for every inch. Reaves, deceptively strong, kept a hand on Markus's hip whenever possible. Russell used his experience to force difficult angles. And when Markus did create space, there was always help waiting, AD or LeBron rotating with perfect timing.
"They're so physical," Sochan said during a timeout, sweat already soaking through his jersey despite only five minutes played.
"That's playoff basketball," Anunoby replied, having been through these wars before. "You gotta match it or they'll punk you."
The first quarter became a clinic in contrasting styles. The Lakers' experience showed in their execution, every possession purposeful, every action designed to create specific advantages. They worked Markus through multiple screens, tiring his legs. They sealed Wembanyama deep in the post, making him work for catches. They flew at shooters, making every three a contested adventure.
But the Spurs had their own advantages. Youth meant fresh legs, meant recovering faster from rotations, meant playing with the fearlessness of those who didn't know better. Markus started hunting mismatches more aggressively, using screens to get AD switched onto him.
With two minutes left in the first, that strategy paid dividends. Markus got AD on him at the top of the key, the crowd sensing opportunity. AD crouched low, those impossibly long arms spread wide, a defensive stance that had frustrated hundreds of guards over his career.
Markus started his dribble sequence—right, left, between the legs, the ball low and tight. AD stayed with him initially, using his length to cut off driving angles. But Markus had been watching film, had noticed AD's tendency to jump at shot fakes when guards got him leaning.
The setup was subtle, a slight hitch in his dribble, shoulders dipping like he was gathering. AD bit just enough, his weight shifting forward. Markus immediately shifted right, creating just enough space for his release. The three splashed through, sending the crowd into early euphoria.
"That's tough, young fella!" someone shouted from the court seats—might have been J. Cole, might have been a billionaire. He didn't care.
LeBron answered immediately, not with his own shot but by orchestrating. He pointed AD to the left block, cleared that side, then delivered a pass that hit AD perfectly in rhythm. Wembanyama contested well, but AD's fadeaway was unstoppable when executed properly.
Back and forth they went, neither team able to create real separation. The intensity was unlike anything San Antonio had experienced this season. Every possession a battle, every inch earned. By the end of the first quarter, Lakers led 28-25, but the slim margin felt more like a tossup than an advantage.
The second quarter brought new challenges. The Lakers went to their bench, but their reserves played with the same physicality, the same precision
Markus found himself guarded by Dennis Schröder, the German guard bringing pest energy off the bench. Schröder picked him up fullcourt, hands constantly moving, trash talk flowing in accented English.
"They say you the next great point guard," Schröder chirped while bodying Markus near halfcourt. "Look like just another rookie to me."
Markus said nothing, just worked through the pressure. But Schröder had gotten in his head slightly—the next possession ended with a rare Markus turnover, Schröder stripping him on a casual crossover.
"Too easy!" Schröder yelled, racing the other way for a layup.
Pop called timeout, not for strategy but to settle his young team. The Lakers were trying to establish physical and mental dominance. How San Antonio responded would determine the game's direction.
Coming out of the timeout, Markus brought a different energy. No more passive probing. When Schröder pressed up, Markus used his body to create space, bumping the smaller guard off balance. When help came, he made the quick pass. When they gave him space, he made them pay.
A pull-up three in transition. A crafty finish through contact. An assist to Robinson for a dunk that brought the crowd to its feet. The Lakers' lead, which had grown to eight, shrunk back to three.
"Yeah, talk now," Vassell said to Schröder after Markus found him for another three. The German guard just smiled and shrugged—he'd gotten the reaction he wanted, even if it hadn't gone exactly as planned.
Late in the second quarter, LeBron returned and immediately made his presence felt.
LeBron brought the ball up, surveyed the defense, then held up two fingers. AD immediately went to set a screen, but it was a decoy. The real action was Reaves cutting baseline off a Russell screen. The Spurs' defense scrambled to recover, leaving Hachimura open in the corner. LeBron's pass hit him in perfect rhythm. Swish.
The half ended with the Lakers up 56-51, but the game felt closer than that. The Spurs had weathered the initial storm, proven they could compete physically, shown they wouldn't be intimidated by the moment. But the Lakers' experience edge was evident in their execution, their composure, their ability to get good shots even when the Spurs defended well.
In the tunnel heading to the locker room, Markus caught sight of the stats on a monitor. He had 15 points and 6 assists, solid numbers. But LeBron's line stood out more—8 points, 9 assists, 5 rebounds. Controlling everything while seeming to do nothing. That was the difference between good and great.
The third quarter opened with both teams making adjustments. The Lakers came out trapping Markus more aggressively, trying to get the ball out of his hands early. The Spurs countered by having him catch the ball on the move, making it harder to set up the trap.
With five minutes left in the third, the Lakers had pushed their lead to nine, their largest of the game. The crowd was getting nervous, that energy shifting from excitement to anxiety.
Markus brought the ball up, feeling the moment slipping away. They needed something, needed a spark. He waved everyone through, calling for a clear-out. The crowd recognized the moment, rising to their feet.
Dennis Schröder picked him up, crouching low, ready for whatever came. Markus started left, crossed right, then between his legs back left. Schröder stayed with him initially, his defense solid. But Markus had set him up—the previous moves all going east-west, never north-south.
This time, after the between-the-legs dribble, Markus exploded forward. Not with otherworldly athleticism, but with perfect timing and angle. Schröder's recovery was a beat late. AD rotated over to help, but Markus was ready for that too.
Instead of challenging AD at the rim, Markus stopped on a dime at the free-throw line. The sudden deceleration left both defenders off-balance. His floater was soft as a whisper, banking in as the crowd exploded.
"THAT'S WHAT I'M TALKING ABOUT!" Markus shouted, pumping his fist once.
The bucket sparked a 10-2 San Antonio run. Suddenly it was a one-point game.
The third quarter ended with the Lakers up six, but the game remained balanced on a knife's edge. Both teams were emptying the tank.
The fourth quarter brought desperation from both sides. Bodies hit the floor chasing loose balls. Coaches worked referees constantly. Every possession felt magnified, carrying weight beyond its actual impact.
Markus experienced it once again, it came often as of late—that zone athletes dream about—where time slowed, where the crowd noise became white static, where only the game existed.
He made plays that surprised even him. A behind-the-back pass in traffic to Robinson. A step-back three over LeBron himself that had no business going in but did.
With five minutes remaining, the Spurs had cut it to two. The Lakers called timeout, Ham's voice animated in the huddle. Coming out, they went directly to AD in the post, trying to establish physical dominance.
But Wembanyama was ready. He held his ground, forced a difficult shot, secured the rebound. The crowd was deafening now, sensing possibility, willing their young team forward.
Then came the moment that changed everything.
2:47 on the clock. Lakers up five after a LeBron and-one. San Antonio needed a bucket desperately. Markus surveyed the floor, saw AD helping off Robinson to shade toward Wembanyama. The lane was there if he could beat his man.
He attacked with everything he had. Schröder tried to stay with him but Markus had a step. AD saw him coming, began rotating over. Everything about the geometry screamed opportunity—Robinson open on the roll, Vassell spotted in the corner, multiple options available.
But Markus wanted this one himself. Needed it. The game, the moment, the season condensing into a single decision. He gathered himself, elevating at the rim, ready to throw down the dunk that would announce San Antonio's arrival on the national stage.
Time froze. The crowd held its breath. Twenty thousand people standing, waiting, believing.
AD's recovery defied physics. The ground he covered, the timing of his leap, the precision of his block. His hand met the ball with devastating force, sending it into the stands like a missile.
The sound of the block echoed through the suddenly silent arena. Markus hit the floor hard, more shocked than hurt, his brain trying to process how his perfect read had resulted in failure.
"THAT'S WHAT I DO!" AD's scream cut through the silence. "WELCOME TO THE LEAGUE BOY!"
The block shifted everything. Not just the game's momentum, but something deeper. The Spurs were still young, still learning, still a step away from true contention. They fought—Markus hit two more threes, Wembanyama battled for every rebound—but the outcome felt inevitable now.
Each time San Antonio threatened, the Lakers had an answer.
With thirty seconds left and the Lakers up seven, LeBron dribbled near halfcourt, letting the clock bleed. The Spurs fouled, extending the inevitable, but everyone knew it was over.
The final buzzer sounded on San Antonio's magical run.
109-101 Lakers.
Markus stood at center court for a long moment after the teams shook hands, staring at nothing in particular.
In the end, experience had beaten potential. But potential's time would come.
—
"Alright, alright, alright," Charles Barkley's voice filled the Inside the NBA studio. "We gotta talk about what we just witnessed. The San Antonio Spurs who nobody expected to do ANYTHING this season, just took the Lakers to the wire in the tournament semifinals!"
"Chuck, you've completely changed your tune," Kenny Smith laughed. "Weren't you calling them crazy for starting a second-round rookie?"
"Listen," Charles held up his hands. "When I'm wrong, I'm wrong. And I was WRONG wrong. But Markus Reinhart? He's special. Twenty-eight points, thirteen assists against the Lakers! Against LeBron and AD!"
"That block though." Shaq shook his head.."
"But that's the point!" Charles leaned forward, animated. "A rookie doesn't come back from that and hit two threes. Most young guys would've been shook. Reinhart just kept playing. That's mental toughness you can't teach."
"The bigger picture," Ernie Johnson interjected, "is what this run means for San Antonio. They've accelerated their timeline significantly."
"Man, forget timeline," Charles waved dismissively. "They're good RIGHT NOW. Wembanyama's already elite defensively. Reinhart's playing like a five-year vet. They added perfect pieces in OG and Robinson. This ain't no rebuilding team."
"LeBron said something interesting postgame," Kenny pulled up the quote. "He said this reminded him of his first playoff series, losing but learning exactly what it takes to win at the highest level."
"That's high praise." Shaq noted.
"And accurate," Charles added. "You could see it in their faces after. Not devastated like young teams usually are. More like... determined. Like they realized they just need a little more."
"Can we talk about Pop?" Ernie asked. "Seventy-four years old and he's got this team playing with more energy than teams half their age."
"Because they believe," Charles said simply. "You can see it. Every player on that roster believes in what they're building. That's Pop's gift, making players believe in something bigger than themselves."
"So what's the ceiling?" Kenny posed the question. "Because this exceeded everyone's expectations."
"I'mma say it," Charles declared. "If they stay healthy? If they develop naturally? We're looking at the next great team in the West. Not in three years. Starting next year."
"That's bold, Chuck."
"Is it? They just went toe-to-toe with the Lakers in a game that mattered! And they're babies! What happens when Markus gets stronger? When Wembanyama adds more polish? When the chemisty gets better?"
"The league better be scared," Shaq concluded. "Because the Spurs are back. Different look, same culture, and these young boys ain't playing around."